


What About This Guy?

by anissa7118



Category: Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anissa7118/pseuds/anissa7118
Summary: MAJOR SPOILERS for WW84!Steve Trevor told Diana not to turn her back on love.  That there was a whole world out there.  "What about this guy?" he'd said, and she'd told him she only wanted him.  She'd said she would never love again, and he told her he hoped it wasn't true.But after so long, it's difficult for her to reach out and make those connections she's been denying since she lost him.  Perhaps it's best to start with something a bit familiar.  Written from the POV of the man whose body Steve possessed, as he encounters Diana again.
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Handsome Man, past Diana (Wonder Woman)/Steve Trevor - Relationship
Kudos: 15





	What About This Guy?

**Author's Note:**

> This plotbunny bit me as I drove away after seeing the film, and I wrote it so it would stop pestering me. In the film credits, the POV character here is just listed as Handsome Man, he's not given a name. I used the actor's name.

He’s seen her a few times, just in passing. She must live somewhere nearby, and they pass each other on the street once in a while. Who wouldn’t notice her, right? She’s a knockout, about a twenty on a scale of one to ten, the kind of woman for whom men would just stare helplessly until they walked into telephone poles. Not that he knew that from personal experience or anything. At least she hadn’t seen it happen. He hasn’t approached her, because he knows she probably gets a dozen invitations to dinner a day, and he doesn’t want to be one more hopeless idiot falling at her feet.

Much to his surprise, she speaks to him first, at the Christmas fair, when they happen to be standing next to one another. And she compliments his sense of fashion, the one thing his friends all razz him about mercilessly. He’s _definitely_ going to brag to them about how the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen said she liked his outfit.

She has a great smile, but it’s just a little sad, in a way that makes her real for him. Not just the beautiful woman he sees sometimes, the way her smiles fades a bit makes her someone he wants to know. He wants to figure out why someone like her could ever look sorrowful, and if there’s anything he can do to fix it. But the moment’s gone before he can figure out what to say, and she’s gone too, snowflakes caught in her lovely dark hair.

The next time they cross paths, it’s almost spring. Hard to tell, with gray slush in the streets and everyone still bundled up, but something about the sunrise looks hopeful, and there’s a sense that the thaw is coming. Maybe it’s the springtime that makes him bold. She’s waiting at a crosswalk for the light to change, and he comes up beside her and says hello, and for a second she’s startled. There’s hurt in those gorgeous eyes, and then she smooths it over into a lovely, polite mask, and tells him good afternoon.

He nods, because all his lines are gone right out of his head, and he wants to know why she looks hurt. She’s the kind who can take care of herself, he can tell that at a glance, so who could possibly be stupid enough to hurt her? The light’s going to change any second though, so he just blurts it out. “Would you … would you like to get coffee, sometime?”

She pauses, and he wonders if he overstepped somehow. If maybe the last ex asked her to coffee and then, he doesn’t know, insulted her mom or something. “Thank you, but I’m very busy,” she says.

“Of course you are,” he says, taking the rejection well. He bombed, that’s all. It happens sometimes. She’s still gorgeous, she still lives somewhere nearby, maybe they’ll get a chance to talk again sometime. He really wants to know why her eyes look so haunted, though.

And then the light changes, but she doesn’t walk on. She’s looking at him thoughtfully. “What’s your name?” she asks.

“Kris,” he tells her, and there’s that flicker of hurt again. Whoever put it there was a complete moron.

She offers her hand. “Diana.”

He shakes with her, oddly businesslike, feeling the confidence in her grip – and the utter lack of any need to prove anything to anyone. Of course she doesn’t want coffee with him, this woman is completely self-contained. She doesn’t need anything from anyone.

No one is behind them on the sidewalk. The light begins to flash, and she still hasn’t started crossing. She’s just looking at him, and  _haunted_ is the right word for her. She looks like she’s seeing a ghost, but not one she’s afraid of. “Do you live nearby?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, wondering why she’d ask. Oh man, does she think he’s stalking her? That’d be great, having to explain to the cops that he’s not stalking her. He turns, points vaguely up the street. “I have an apartment over that way. It’s not much, but it’s home, you know?”

“I’d like to see it.” She says it so calmly, so casually, that for an instant he thinks she must be a realtor or something.

And then parts of his brain wake up and kick him.  _A gorgeous woman just asked to see your apartment, idiot, invite her up!_ “Sure,” he says, his heart pounding. “You, ah, you wanna go see it … now? I mean I was on my way to pick up dinner, but it’s not a big deal, I could order in or something…” He’s rambling and he knows it but he can’t quite stop, because things like this don’t happen in real life.

She cups his jaw, places her thumb over his lips, silences him. Her skin is soft, but there’s this underlying strength to her touch that makes him think of silk over steel. She’s turning him into a poet now. “Yes, I’d like to see your apartment now, … Kris. Shall we?”

He doesn’t trust himself to speak without getting nervous and rambling, so he just nods. She smiles, and slips her arm through his, and they’re most of the way back to his place before he realizes she’s leading him there like she knows exactly where he lives. He doesn’t really care, he might as well be floating rather than walking, because this is  _real_ .

As soon as he unlocks the doors, she steps into his apartment and shrugs off her coat. He takes it, hangs it up for her, starts to take his off as well and feels her catch the shoulders of it to help him. Her touch sends sparks of electricity flying over his skin, and on some level he knows this can’t be for real. She might be a serial killer or something, women like her don’t just  _do_ this. And yet, once the coat is hung up, she catches him by the shirtfront and tugs him close and kisses him.

It’s … it’s a  _lot_ , that kiss. Her lips, soft and warm and eager. Her body, pressed close to him. Her trim waist under his hands. And yet there’s still just a trace of something sad in her eyes when she pulls back, some kind of yearning that he’d give anything to fulfill.

Before he can speak, she touches his lips again. “Don’t talk,” she says, so he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to break this spell anyway. He kisses her again, and again, nuzzling down to her neck, breathing her name against her skin like a prayer. She sighs, and runs her hands over his broad shoulders, and leans into him.

They make their way into the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing behind, and it’s the oddest thing… He feels like he’s done this before. Like he knows her, somehow. There’s this kind of almost sense-memory to the way his hands map her body, to the feel of her skin under his lips, and the way her nails press against his back is strangely familiar. So is the way her body rises to meet him, the flush that warms her olive skin, the rhythm of her panting breath. Soon enough he forgets all of that, lost in the moment, lost in her.

She cries out at the peak in some language he doesn’t recognize, and when he presses his face against her shoulder afterward, trying to get his breath back, she pets his hair lovingly and murmurs, “I missed you, Steve.”

A moment later, she seems to realize her mistake. “I … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you that…” 

He doesn’t even care, at this point. She’s some kind of a goddess, this woman. Even named after one – he took Roman mythology in school. He’s never had a night like this before, certainly not an afternoon like this, and he’ll take being called by someone else’s name if this is what it gets him. So he chuckles, and looks up at her. “It’s Kris. You can call me anything you want, Diana. As long as you call me.”

She bites her lip, blushing, and somehow the mixture of tenderness and embarrassment makes her even more real. It makes him want her more, somehow, and he wouldn’t have thought that was possible. He strokes her rumpled hair out of her face tenderly, and gives her his most charming grin. “Although this Steve’s got a lot to answer for, if he left  _you_ .”

“He didn’t have a choice,” she says, and she has an accent he hadn’t quite noticed before. It’s stronger now, her voice a little rough. The sorrow is back in her eyes, drowning the warmth in their depths. “He died.”

Most people say ‘he passed on’ or ‘he passed away’. She says it flatly, the stark truth, no pretty euphemisms. He likes that about her, the lack of pretense, even as it makes him sit up a little with shame. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” 

She stills him again with her fingertips over his lips, tracing the line of them, finding the spot where she’d nipped at him in the midst of lovemaking. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she finally says. “You couldn’t know. Thank you, Kris.”

“Any time,” he replies, chuckling at the absurdity of it. _Her,_ thanking _him_. He ought to be thanking her, and God, and good fortune, and whatever company made his futon strong enough to hold up under the last hour.

She’s beautiful and warm and real, not some fantasy, she’s a woman with grief and probably baggage, but she’s also naked in his bed and looking quite pleased to be there. He doesn’t know what to say to her, so he just traces his hand down her side, the dip at her waist and the flare of her hip so perfect under his touch. She bites her lip again, and says, “Any time?”

“Yeah, of course,” he tells her hastily, because whatever else she has going on, if she wants to do this again he’s _absolutely_ on board.

“Now, then,” she says, and leans forward to kiss him. For a moment he’s not sure he _can_ , but that kiss convinces him.

Maybe someday she’ll tell him about this Steve guy. Maybe she won’t. He’s not sure where this is going, if there’s maybe dating in the cards, or if this is all she wants from him, but all he knows right now is that he can chase the sorrow from her gaze for a little while. It’s good enough for him.


End file.
